


Trip Wire

by Rrismo



Series: Catharsis [1]
Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Nacho's bad at coping, Sexual Tension, Vandalism, very illegal makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrismo/pseuds/Rrismo
Summary: Everything before has been a breach of privacy, a look behind a veil that Nacho never should have taken. But this? This is forbidden. He is standing on the doorstep of an ancient ruin, a temple, he’s dragging a sledgehammer over holy ground, a place of worship dedicated to a long forgotten god.This. Is.Desecration.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Series: Catharsis [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701643
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	Trip Wire

**Author's Note:**

> Once shit starts hitting the fan, I recommend listening to [Seven Devils](https://youtu.be/gErmFyIDeFM) by Florence in the Machine, at least that's what I did while writing!

When Lalo said he needed Nacho for an activity this evening, Nacho didn’t expect himself getting dragged to the supermarket to help Lalo with his grocery shopping. Yet here he is, pushing the cart past shelves and shelves filled with household items and cans of food, following a chipper Lalo and his prattle about weekend cooking plans.

Nacho has to keep himself from checking the perimeter every five seconds. It’s Lalo’s presence that sets him off like that. Usually when they’re out in the open, he’s Lalo’s eyes and ears, and it’s his job to look out for trouble. But here, there's only bustling families, little grannies doing their weekend shopping, and students looking to get drunk. There’s no way around the surrealism of the moment. Nacho’s been spending a couple of weeks with Lalo now, seeing him almost every day, hanging around him for hours, and just when he thinks he’s got Lalo figured out, he gets thrown curve balls like this.

Now Lalo jumps from aisle to aisle, taking this from a shelf, having a look at that, he gets some skirt steak from the butcher, whom he blatantly flirts with throughout the entire conversation, and is just generally in a remarkably good mood, which usually does not bode well. Again, Nacho catches himself looking over his shoulder and curses himself. For all he knows, Lalo is just doing honest to god grocery shopping, and doesn’t plan to rob the store five minutes from now. What’s not quite clear to Nacho yet is why Lalo would need him for that.

They’ve reached the last couple of aisles, and Lalo has neither started any endeavours to hold someone hostage, nor has anyone tried to assault them, so Nacho slowly feels the tension drain from his shoulders. That’s when Lalo starts excitedly pointing at a shelf near the checkout and yells “Oh, ¡casi olvido algo!”

He grabs the cart by the front and pulls it after him to an aisle labelled just with the word “kids wonderland” in colorful letters by a sign hanging over their heads. The entire rack is filled with joke items, craft stuff and cheap plastic toys. _Yeah_ , Nacho thinks, _Lalo should feel right at home here._

Without any hesitation, Lalo grabs a couple of cans of silly string as well as a pack of krazy glue and throws them into the cart.

“You havin’ a party?”, Nacho asks, not able to contain his bewilderment any longer.

“Hm?”, Lalo makes, throws a bag of lollipops into the cart and pulls it towards the cashiers. “Oh yeah, didn’t I tell you? We’re going to a friend’s place later!”

Nacho doesn’t even pretend to be satisfied by this answer, but Lalo doesn’t pay his frown any mind. He checks out his groceries, the silly string and the krazy glue while shooting the cashier a charming, way too toothy smile, and makes for the exit.

On the way back, Lalo does not drop Nacho off at his own apartment like he usually does. They’re going straight for Lalo’s bungalow, no detours, no nothing. So it’s going to be one of these nights, Nacho thinks. There hasn’t been a single day that he didn’t regret letting Lalo give him head. Firstly, now he can’t get the memory of Lalo on his knees out of his head. Secondly, he still has no clue what Fring is going to think of it, if he ever finds out, which Nacho prays to god will never happen. Thirdly, this whole shopping thing, that wasn’t Lalo trying to make new headway in their relationship, right? 

So what if Nacho has taken Fring’s order to get close to Lalo a bit too far and enjoyed it a little bit too much, that doesn’t mean Nacho is down for playing house now.

It’s already getting late when they bring in the groceries. They have barely entered the kitchen when Lalo switches on his stereo and shimmies along to the beat while stowing away his purchases. He throws Nacho the silly string and krazy glue and orders him to put them in the duffel bag next to the front door. Nacho finds it, and inside a couple of cans of spray paint as well as two flashlights. He hesitates a moment before dropping the silly string and krazy glue into the bag. This promises to be an interesting night.

The music is blaring in the kitchen when Nacho gets back, and Lalo is singing along without even the slightest pretense of inhibition. “Ven aca jíbarito mio, no te vaya' a quedar en la ciudad, que mañana nos vamos a casar, y te espero solita en el bohío”, he serenades the farm boy from the song in a low, warm tone. The moment he spots Nacho, he takes one quick step away from the counter where he has been drying off his hands and towards Nacho. With a smooth motion, Lalo wraps one arm around Nacho’s waist and holds onto his hand with the other. With surprisingly strong movements he carries Nacho along as they twirl through the kitchen. It’s obvious that Nacho is a terrible dancer, but Lalo does not seem to mind. His body is warm and firm against Nacho’s. He smells good as always, like spices and cologne, smiles with a soft, fond glint in his dark eyes, and there is something going on in his head, and Nacho doesn’t like it.

Nacho uses the momentum of the next spin to break free of Lalo’s embrace and get enough distance between himself and the other man that he does not run danger of being drawn into another dance number. Lalo laughs and tuts at Nacho as he leans against the kitchen door frame. “Even you need to loosen up every now and then, Nachito.”

Nacho cringes at the nick name.

It’s midnight when they hit the road again, and Lalo still hasn’t said a single word about who it is they’re visiting. The duffel bag lies between Nacho’s feet, the cans inside clattering with every bump in the blacktop. Their road does not take them into the desert, instead it seems like they are driving across the entirety of Albuquerque. Nacho feels a sense of foreboding settle over him. Whatever it is Lalo has planned, it’s not the benign tryst he makes it out to be. No, Lalo is probably planning an attack, but on whom? There are barely any rival gangs around here left that would be worth the trouble, and what does Lalo hope to achieve with crafting supplies? Even for a goddamn glitter bomb, they’re still missing the glitter…!

Lalo stops the car in what looks to Nacho like a completely normal suburban neighborhood. He kills the engine, props both wrists onto the steering wheel, leans forward and peeks at a sprawling ranch style house by the street. 

Never in his entire life has Nacho seen this building before. And yet it dawns on him what they are doing here. He just sits and stares at the house, until he notices Lalo’s eyes on him.

“What, can’t I pay my business partner a friendly visit?”, Lalo asks when he sees Nacho’s alarmed expression.

Nacho takes a barely noticeable breath to buy time, collect his thoughts. This can’t be what Lalo has in mind. He can’t be planning to break into Fring’s house. He holds Lalo’s gaze and turns towards him in his seat. “I _strongly_ advise against this.”

“Why?” Lalo shrugs. “If we’re intercepting his trucks and burning them down, why should this be off limits?”

“This is doing nothing to further your plans”, Nacho insists. “You’re trying to hurt him financially. This is making it personal.”

His words do register with Lalo, but they’re having the wrong effect. Instead of backing off, Lalo narrows his eyes for a split second and a sinister grin slowly splits his face in two. “That’s the point.”

A heavy silence spreads through the dark car. The light of a lantern illuminates one half of Lalo’s face, and Nacho notices the lurking expression in his eyes. He’s also aware of the fact that Lalo hasn’t told him about this little scheme, like he usually would. All that leaves only one conclusion: Lalo is testing him. Which means he will have to pay for every bit of hesitation from here on out.

“Do you know for sure that he’s gone?”, Nacho asks.

“Yeah, some kind of business trip”, Lalo answers with a dismissing handwave. “Won’t be back for the entire weekend.”

There is no time to contact Fring about this. And he will have Nacho’s head on a platter. But before he can worry about the murderous bastard on a business trip, Nacho will first have to worry about the other murderous bastard sitting in a car with him.

Nacho nods. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“Okay!”, Lalo says. His hand shoots forward, between Nacho’s legs. He grabs the duffel bag from the footwell, his forearm resting on Nacho’s inner thigh for a split second. “Hold out your hands!”, he orders, almost giddy, every bit of ominous tone drained from his features and voice.

Bemused, Nacho obliges, the place where Lalo’s fingers just brushed against his ankle still tingling.

Lalo gets the krazy glue from the bag and dispenses some of it over Nacho’s fingertips. He does the same with his own fingers and rubs them together, then opens his hands again. Nacho mimics him, and it only takes seconds for the thin film of glue to dry on his fingers. “You won’t be leaving any fingerprints this way”, Lalo explains and taps his forehead.

They get out of the car into the cool air, and Nacho hasn’t even noticed that he’s been sweating until a nightly gust hits his face.

“Get the bag from the trunk!”, Lalo says and slams his door shut. He’s got the duffel bag under his arm and reaches inside. Somehow the lollipops have made it in there while Nacho wasn’t looking. One of them is immediately unpacked, the plastic wrapper carelessly tossed to the sidewalk, and the lollipop finds its way into Lalo’s mouth. A sickly sweet cherry scent wafts over to Nacho, who feels himself swallow as he watches the red sphere vanishing inside Lalo’s mouth, just to be pulled out again with a pop, glistening and wet in the dim lantern light. Nacho tears his eyes away and gets to the trunk.

He finds a black canvas bag inside. He expects more spray cans, but instead the bag feels soft. It’s weirdly lumpy, and heavy, and it smells musty, almost like a moth-ball.

Nacho decides he doesn’t want to know what’s inside that bag.

Again and again, inertia shoves it against his leg as they walk up to the ranch house, and it feels disgusting.

The night is cloudy and dark, not a soul to be seen between the picket fences of the well off neighborhood. Lalo jumps over the waist high wall with ease, and gets one of the spray cans from his bag to cover the security cameras. When he’s had the time to do recon on this place, Nacho can’t say. His heart is thrumming high up in his throat. He almost expects Fring’s goons to show up any second now, and they’re gonna point their guns and they’re gonna shoot, and Nacho’s gonna bleed and ache again, helpless on the ground-

He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows down the panicky, heavy breath that threatens to choke him. _Focus_.

They keep their heads low as they hurry across the backyard lawn and reach the cellar entrance. Nacho watches with surprise as Lalo starts picking the lock. He was expecting something more along the lines of a brick through the terrace window from a Salamanca, but Lalo is not like the rest of his family in many regards. 

“Wouldn’t want to set anyone off too early”, Lalo murmurs as the cellar door opens with a quiet clicking noise. “I don’t like getting interrupted when I’m having fun.” He gets the cans of silly string from the bag and shakes them, then shoots their brightly colored content into the pitch black of the cellar. Instead of floating to the ground, the delicate strings catch in what seems to be thin air in a couple of places. “Watch your step there”, Lalo says, pointing to the now revealed trip wire. He hands Nacho a flashlight, and they head into the gaping, black hole that is the cellar entry.

They make their way onto the main floor, which is already decently lit from the lanterns outside, rendering the flashlights obsolete. Even in the dusky light, everything about the corridor they just stepped into looks elegant and tasteful, from the flower arrangements to the paintings on the wall, from the silver candle holders to the earthenware, every object exudes an air of aloofness and extravagance. Every surface is free of even a hint of dust, not a single spot or scratch on the hardwood floor, every window is completely clean against the dark night sky, and Nacho has never wanted to smash anything to pieces this badly.

Lalo brushes against him as he walks down the hallway, admiring every decorative item, taking the lollipop out of his mouth to make impressed little “ooh”s and “aah”s at paintings and pieces of furniture as Nacho follows him into the kitchen.

The room looks like straight from a catalogue, or a demonstration apartment. Every surface, sink, countertop, is absolute pristine, almost as if this isn’t a kitchen at all. It reminds Nacho of a dollhouse, a gigantic, walkable one. _That would make you the doll_ , Nacho’s subconscious chimes in. Nacho grimaces as he suppresses the thought of strings twined around his wrists, his ankles and his neck.

Lalo positions himself behind the counter and lets both hands run over it. “Give me what’s inside the canvas bag”, he demands and points to Nacho’s bag with the lollipop. Nacho is thankful for the distraction, until he actually processes Lalo’s words, that is. It’s too dark to peek inside the bag, so Nacho reaches in, and immediately jerks back. His fingertips brushed something soft. Hair? Maybe fur. Trying to not let the disgust show on his face, he feels inside bag again. There it is. Feathers. Nacho gets a hold of them and reveals the bag’s content.

It’s a dead chicken. With its head, feet, and everything else still attached.

Lips pressed together, Nacho holds out the chicken. Lalo grabs a kitchen knife from the extensive collection, skillfully twirls it in his hand and takes the dead bird from Nacho. He unceremoniously drops it onto the counter top. Then he starts cutting it to pieces. Long, fierce slashes tear the body apart limb for limb, first the head, then the wings.

There are oily feathers flying everywhere, a musty smell spreads through the kitchen. Dark stains are covering the counter, like brush strokes, and Lalo is working on his disgusting painting with unadulterated rapture. It’s a goddamn mess, all of it.

Nacho throws open a kitchen cabinet and pretends he’s inspecting it. He finds a bottle of tequila and immediately opens it. Nausea is rising in his stomach at the sound of flesh being torn apart, and he swallows it down with the tequila while he feels his knuckles turn white around the door handle of the cabinet. After that surprisingly thought-out break-in, Nacho has almost forgotten that Lalo is still a lot like the rest of his family in many regards. 

Only after the squelching and rustling from the cutting stops and a gurgling faucet is being turned on does Nacho dare to close the cabinet again. The remains of the chicken are left on the counter, sticky feathers everywhere. It already smells like shit now, but when Fring gets back after the weekend, he’s in for a breathtaking surprise.

Truth be told, Nacho has expected himself to be revolted by the sight. And part of him is. Yeah, part of him could throw up into the sink right this instant. But another part, the by far stronger one, finds it weirdly satisfying. Seeing this pristine, immaculate kitchen tainted, its spotlessness destroyed by crude, raw violence… Nacho finds himself enjoying the thought.

When he’s done washing his hands, Lalo saunters over to Nacho. He only stops when he’s one hand’s width away, takes the now candy-less stick of his lollipop from between his lips with a slow, deliberate gesture, removes the bottle of tequila from Nacho’s hand and takes a generous swig. Nacho can see Lalo’s larynx bob as he swallows. The bottle makes a heavy thud as Lalo puts it down on the counter and gets the spray cans out of his bag again. He tosses Nacho one of them. No further words are needed as they get to work.

They split up into different rooms, and probably still fired up from the chicken massacre, Lalo can be heard whistling the entire way down the corridor.

Nacho gets into the dining room, and finds himself hesitating. He sprays black color over a comparably insignificant looking painting, a coffee table, things that could be replaced. Then he spots a mirror, about the size of his own upper body, and it’s so garish that he just has to spray over it. The light of a street lantern bounces off of it and back into Nacho’s face, and after he draws one reluctant line across the mirror’s surface, he realizes that the color of his spray can is not black, but red.

He looks at himself in the mirror, a red painted streak cutting across his own body and face, and over the reflection of the gaudy white flower arrangement next to him. The image wavers. He probably shouldn’t have downed so much of that tequila. For a second, Nacho sees himself lying in the desert, dark and red blotches spotting his shirt, and just like back then, he’s brought this on himself.

With a barely held in angry grunt, he brings another red stroke across his own face in the mirror. Then another one over his own chest and throat. He takes the vase with the flowers with both hands, and flings it right at his own head. The mirror shatters to pieces. From the other room, Nacho can hear Lalo hoot. Shiny, silvery shards scatter all over the floor, throwing reflections of the lantern light at the ceiling like water, and Nacho stomps on them. He gets one of the elegantly curved candle holders and throws it against the wall.

This is not his fault. It’s Fring. He’s the monster. He’s the one that should bleed. 

Nacho tears a red streak into the wall with his spray can. The color drips down the lines and onto the hardwood floor. It’s like Nacho’s clawing bloody slash wounds into the house’s insides, and it feels good, and just, and something fills his chest so much it’s going to burst any second.

This is what Fring deserves. Fring deserves to have someone come to _his_ house in the middle of the night for once, invade _his_ most private realms, tear _his_ illusion of safety in his own home to shreds. Nacho wants Fring to know what it’s like to have nightmares, every night, of people coming to him when he sleeps, grabbing him by his naked arms and legs and pinning him onto the mattress, tearing him out of bed and into the harsh reality that there was nothing in his entire life that he ever truly had under control.

The cacophony of his own grunts and heavy breathing as he throws over tables and chairs is accompanied by the sound of Lalo singing somewhere in the house, interrupted by smashing and crashing. Nacho’s head is reeling as he shreds through walls and paintings, until he arrives at an open door. Not a bathroom door, or a kitchen door. This one’s different. And he feels it.

Lalo looks at him from inside. He’s standing in the middle of a pile of suits and shirts that he’s pulled out of the wardrobe, and regards Nacho almost expectantly, waiting for him to take a step into the room.

Everything before has been a breach of privacy, a look behind a veil that Nacho never should have taken. But this? This is forbidden. He is standing on the doorstep of an ancient ruin, a temple, he’s dragging a sledgehammer over holy ground, a place of worship dedicated to a long forgotten god.

This. Is. _Desecration_.

Nacho enters Fring’s bedroom.

His steps feel somewhat wobbly. The tequila is definitely going to his head now. Nacho pulls himself together as he watches Lalo tear a dark shirt to pieces. Battered garments are spread over the entire floor of the minimalistically furnished room. There’s a queen size bed, a wardrobe, nightstands, and not much else. No flowers, no self-important decorations cluttering up the space. There’s a quietness about this room that’s not impeded by Lalo’s cheerful humming or the sound of fabric being ripped apart. Nacho sways slightly in place. He kind of misses that tequila bottle right now.

Apparently satisfied with his work, Lalo walks past him and throws himself onto the bed with so much force that he bounces back up a bit. He stretches out against the beddings, rakes his fingers over the sheets and groans languorously. Nacho feels his cheeks heating up, and something tells him he should avert his gaze, even more so than when Lalo took the goddamn chicken apart. Instead, all he can do is stare at Lalo interlacing his fingers behind his back and spreading his legs.

The anger is still flaring up in Nacho’s stomach. It’s like a helpless little demon struggling against his insides, and even after all that destruction, it wants to be taken out on something… or someone. Fring deserves it, but he’s not here. Nacho can’t direct it against himself, he doesn’t know how. That leaves Lalo.

Lalo, who brought him here. Lalo, who made him feel this way. Lalo, who right now is in the process of wiggling his body into the mattress, eyes fixed to the ceiling, and murmuring: “Hmm, muy suave… What do you think this bed has seen, hm?”

The invitation is clear. There’s adrenaline and alcohol running through Nacho’s veins, his nerves are on fire, he’s still breathing heavily, he’s sweating all over, and he can’t even bring himself to care anymore. He steps between Lalo’s legs and nudges them apart with his knee. Slowly and careful not to let his tipsiness show, he crawls on top of Lalo, hands roaming over the other man’s chest up to his arms, and kisses him. Lalo’s moustache is coarse against Nacho’s mouth, but his tongue is soft, and playful. A taste of cheap cherry flavor still sticks to it, and Nacho greedily delves into Lalo’s mouth to get more.

A wild, excited grin spreads over Lalo’s face. He offsets Nacho’s center of gravity almost immediately and topples him onto the bed, getting on top of him. Lalo’s hands seize Nacho’s face, and the glued fingertips feel weird against Nacho’s skin, artificial, like plastic. Nacho has no clue what Lalo was talking about, the mattress is not soft at all. It almost hurts his back with how hard it is, actually.

There’s still the same word going through his head, again and again, and every time it does, Nacho feels his skin growing hotter under Lalo’s kisses that trace down his neck. _Desecration_.

He desperately wants to kiss back, dig his fingers into Lalo’s hair, but if he’s learned anything about Salamancas, it’s that they get off on a good power trip. So he keeps his hands beside his head and lets Lalo undo the first two buttons of his shirt to kiss down his chest, and resists the temptation to shove his thigh between Lalo’s legs.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the submissive type”, Lalo chuckles, and his moustache scratches against the soft skin over Nacho’s collar bone as he speaks.

That fucking does it. Tipsiness and Salamanca pride be damned, Nacho seizes Lalo’s hips between his thighs and rolls over with him. He grabs Lalo’s wrists and shoves them deep into the sheets, enjoying the way Lalo’s muscles and tendons tense in their futile struggle against Nacho’s hold. _Desecration_ , he thinks, grinds down against Lalo’s hips and groans deep in his throat. Fury mixes with pleasure into a welcome cocktail of indifference, and when Lalo makes a delighted noise and purrs: “Come on, jíbarito, give it to me!”, Nacho slaps him across the face without even thinking about it.

Some part of Nacho still held back, so it wasn’t even a strong hit. But the slapping sound of it and the satisfying smack of his hand connecting with Lalo’s cheek goes right to Nacho’s crotch. It feels good. But it’s not enough. He probably should stop it right here. Apologize to Lalo this instant, maybe a bit of groveling will fix this. But then Lalo looks back up at him, and there is the most wicked glint in his eyes as he wiggles his hips underneath Nacho and bites his lower lip in such a ridiculous display of brattiness, it would have pushed all of Nacho’s buttons even if he hadn’t already been furious. “Really, that all you can do, Nachito?”, Lalo wants to say, but he’s barely finished the nickname when Nacho backhands him so hard over the cheek it throws Lalo’s entire head to the side.

Nacho can feel the ring on his finger crack against Lalo’s lip. It sobers him up so quickly as if he had just been dunked into a tub of ice cold water. He jerks back as if he's burned himself and looks down at Lalo, who slowly turns his head towards him. His lip is split, and the blood gleams in the dim, yellow light of the lantern falling onto the bed. They stay like this for a second, as if paralyzed, one man regarding the other, assessing, waiting for the other to react.

It’s Nacho who wants to move away first, but Lalo sits up, leisurely wraps one arm around Nacho’s waist and gets a hold of Nacho’s hand with the other. He kisses Nacho, and it feels like a threat. The taste of cheap cherry candy and blood mingle in Nacho’s mouth. He can’t help it, he just has to tongue at the little laceration, drawing a low hum from Lalo.

And for a moment, there are no violent thoughts pushing their way into Nacho’s head against his will. It’s just him, delving into the kiss, his arms holding onto Lalo just as Lalo is holding onto him, and there is nothing desecrating about this - it’s bliss.

The pious silence is cut to pieces by the sound of distant sirens.

They break apart immediately, and the mawkishness washes from Nacho’s mind just as quickly. Reality crushes back in on him all at once. He’s sitting in Lalo Salamanca’s lap, on Gustavo Fring’s bed, in Gustavo Fring’s house, which they just trashed, and as if all that wasn’t enough, he’s just given Lalo a bloody lip. He can see Lalo lapping at it with the tip of his tongue in the dim light.

Without another word, they get up, grab their stuff and make a run for it.

But Lalo’s unusually cagey expression tells Nacho that this is not over.

As they hurry through the vandalized corridors, past smashed paintings and walls covered in dripping red color, Nacho’s heart sinks in his chest.

 _You fucked up_ , he thinks, and again and again it whirls through his now uncomfortably clear mind, _you fucked up_.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Lalo's singing is [Romance Del Campesino](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuk_MjHo5Cg). Give it a listen, it's a bop! The lyrics he's singing translate to: "Come here, my little peasant boy, don't go staying at the city long, 'cause we're going to get married tomorrow, and I expect you in the shack all alone."
> 
> I have a (kinda smutty) continuation in mind for this one, but I don't know when I'll be able to write it. Maybe I'm going to make it a second chapter, or a series? We'll see! Until then, let me know what you think ♥♥♥


End file.
